Tonight, I want to talk a bit about me, from the outside in. It�s always easier to start with the outside. Not that this is any great revelation, or anything, but it does set a precedent. Lets start with a descriptive paragraph, shall we? Well, not before I clear up one thing:
I can start with the outside, and by the time I get done with that, perhaps the inside will appear less daunting. Right now, my mental innards look like scummy pond water. But, I suppose that can�t be helped. First glances are, of course, deceiving.
So here I am, sitting in front of my roommate�s monitor, furiously pecking these words out on her keyboard. Slip of a black dress that makes me feel like a Spanish widow� well, sans the generous amount of cleavage that seems to be cavorting it�s way out of the top of it, but I believe you get the picture. Can I help it if I always picture Spanish widow�s dresses possessing spaghetti straps? (Blame that old Madonna video.) It does have a fetching slit up the back, and an overlay of black lace. I feel the ridiculous urge to go running to all the twenty four hour drug stores in San Diego, and see if any of them offer those fifties style stockings, black, with the line up the back. I think I would prefer thigh highs; this is a Betty Paige dress if ever I saw one.
I think that, perhaps, my eccentricities in terms of loosing my thoughts to a keyboard are finally catching up to me. What I mean is this: I sit here, drinking (drunk) piss colored butterscotch schnapps out of a champagne glass. The schnapps goes down, the dress rides up� and I put on this little tight number (and drank this liquid Werther�s Original) just to more fully enjoy this blasphemy to secretaries world wide that I seem to be committing. I think my personal best, in terms of words per minute, has peaked at around eighteen.
I mean, I threw on the Tom Waits, and the spaghetti strapped heels, to sit here and be appropriately armored against whatever might come flying through my head and out of my fingertips. Or maybe I am just a pretentious wanna-be artist in love with the aesthetic picture presented in the paragraphs above. Who knows?
There is something that has been on my mind as of late, however. I was thinking that by writing it down, I could give it form, and possibly function. Of course, there is always the risk that I might give it more life as well. Actually, I am pretty sure that risk is a given, but you won�t really find me caring. The Schnapps and good old Tom have taken care of that.
This house is redolent with two types of urges, both of which I am subtly inundated with, for better or worse, throughout my days here. The first is creativity. The second is carnality. Unforgiving, I think, in both their sickening ability to persevere through whatever distractions I employ against them, and in the pure, visceral reactions they evoke from me.
I thought, this evening, that I would try something different. I thought that I might incorporate the two thorns in my side into a tandem effort. Perhaps produce a rose or two, if you get my meaning. Hence, this would be my attempt to use my creative impulses to dilute the effects of the understated, constant carnality that whispers to me at the oddest moments.
As far as the effects part goes, I seems to be privy to some sort of simmering, back burner desire� which provokes crying spells and a different kind of waterworks down below. Separately, of course, and the latter effect is by far the more common one. I am not the type of woman to experience salty and/or slippery wetness without some form of provocation, so this was baffling to me.
I have taken to talking to my friends outside my abode; jokingly (and then earnestly after a few glasses of port or pinot), relaying my plight to them. For the most part, they stare at me as if the potential for unnecessary drama given my residency has finally bested my east coast common sense. But one girl said to me in the lush, backlit confines of a downtown wine bar: �Sara, don�t blame them for not understanding; they don�t know what it�s like to be consumed by the urge to fuck, simply for fucking�s sake. It�s a type of purity of thought and intent that most people never even become aware of.� Granted, we were both two sheets to the wind and almost under the table, but that moment remains with me. It was the first time I could finger the source of my discontent. Unfortunately, as soon as I put a name to my mysterious malady, there was method to its madness. A lot of method, actually.
And the method is demanding surrender to madness. That�s passion for you, right? Well, I don�t have the luxury or the option to indulge just yet.
So until then, I suppose I will continue on as I have been: taking walks around my backyard and my neighborhood, attempting to chill my body�s fever into a brief respite of submission. Pursuing certain endeavors of pleasure under the cover of my thick sleeping bag until I lose the ability to keep up with consciousness. And, of course, smoking cigarettes on my porch at five in the morning, crying because the only company I seem to be able to find at that hour is the new acquaintance of Solitude.
She has assured me that soon enough we shall become old friends. What a bitch.
1:39 p.m. - 2001-05-03
Recent entries:
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Mary - 2005-02-08
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